The Best Spaceships Are Still the Green Ones
by DrWorm
Summary: "Isn’t there a little song…" Ford looked up to the ceiling as he searched his memory. "’A kiss is just a kiss’ or something?" Arthur searches for familiarity in a strange universe. Ford has nice eyes.


**Disclaimer:** They belong to the late, great Douglas Adams and his estate, I expect. This is my first time toying with them... and I sincerely hope that, if Adams is doing any grave-rolling, it is with good-natured laughter.  
**Notes:** Written in 90 minutes for the complimentary colors challenge at contrelamontre on livejournal. Meant to take place in the first book just before Magrathea is discovered. Adams never mentions Ford's eye color, as far as I could find, but he does describe his hair as "gingery." Also… be warned, that some people may call this slash. I call it odd.

The Best Spaceships Are Still the Green Ones  
  
"Come to tuck me in have you?" Arthur Dent asked as he fell heavily onto the bed Trillian had directed him to for the ship-simulated night. For the barest moment, Ford hoped that his Sqornshellous Zeta mattress hadn't been dried completely and that perhaps, at that very instant, it would come back to life and swallow Arthur into its mostly firm but comfortable mattress-y depths so that Ford would never have to deal with Arthur ever again. Then he immediately felt the Betelgeusian equivalent of guilt (a sort of tickle at the very back corners of his larynx) and shook his head.   
  
"No," he coughed slightly, "No, er… just wanted to make sure everything was… I mean, I suppose it must be a bit of a shock and all…" He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his trousers, feeling flustered in a way not often felt by Ford Prefect, hitchhiker of galaxies and reporter for the trendiest Guide on the Universal Market.  
  
"Bit more than a bit, I think," Arthur mumbled just loud enough for Ford to hear him.   
  
"Well, think about it this way…" Ford shrugged and ran bony fingers through his peculiarly red hair before deciding that it was a touch too warm in the small room and the old tweed jacket he'd purchased at the corner thrift shop was no longer necessary, thank you very much. He peeled the tattered piece of clothing from his shoulders and tossed it over the back of a rather uncomfortable looking chair, which he then turned around and straddled casually so that he could face Arthur and rest his head on his forearms all at once. "You'll never have to explain to your mother again why you haven't found a nice girlfriend, gotten married, and produced little Dents."   
  
Arthur frowned. "What are you implying?" Ford grinned widely.  
  
"Oh, nothing at all." A lock of hair fell across his forehead and, despite the lack of good overhead lighting in the tiny room, the red colouring appeared to be supplemented by highlights that many supermodels would have cheerfully killed for. Arthur also noticed a smattering of freckles across Ford's nose that he previously hadn't really cared about; they gave his friend an almost endearing boyishly innocent quality. Which of course wasn't Ford at all, but Arthur supposed that appearances could be deceiving. Very deceiving. Extremely deceiving.  
  
The corners of Arthur's lips quirked upward in a small smile as he pushed himself up onto his elbows to confront Ford directly. "No, I'm quite sure there was some sort of implication in there. Negative, I believe. About my…" He paused, trying to think of the right words.  
  
Ford immediately supplied them. "Lack of dates…"  
  
"Er…"  
  
"Dinners…"  
  
"Well…"  
  
"Or really any sexual contact with human females." Ford blinked very deliberately in an effort to drive his accusation home.  
  
"I've been busy." Arthur answered weakly. He and Ford stared at each other for a moment and Arthur was rather fascinated to note that Ford had eyes the color of limes. Except that limes no longer existed, and so his eyes could now only be clumsily described as very, very green.  
  
"You were not busy," Ford said softly. "You worked in radio." Arthur's nose crinkled in desperate irritation.  
  
"Yes... and all of _that_ is completely dead now! Thank you so much for reminding me!" Arthur flopped onto his back and rolled onto his left side, away from Ford, who in turn rolled his very, very green eyes up toward the ceiling as if to ask, "Why me, Zarquon?"  
  
But still, Ford rose to his feet and walked to the edge of Arthur's bed to sit somewhat cautiously, as vengeful thoughts of mattress-attack still lingered on the outskirts of his consciousness. After a few minutes of rather chilly silence, he said, "Listen, Arthur…"  
  
"No, you listen!" Arthur sat up as abruptly as was possible on the yielding surface; his movement caused Ford to overbalance and fall backward slightly so that the two were shoulder to shoulder and, when Ford turned his head, nose to nose. "Because I really don't think you have been. Listening. To me." He took a deep, shuddering breath. "My planet has been utterly and completely destroyed. Everything I knew… is gone. You have this universe—" Arthur gesticulated wildly with the hand that was not keeping him upright. "—and what do I have?"  
  
"An adventure?" Ford offered quietly.  
  
"NO!" Arthur shrieked with such a pitch and decibel level as to make Ford turn his head and pinch the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. "I NEVER wanted an ADVENTURE! I wanted pleasant tea times and… and quiet evenings at the pub and walks around town with the dog and a little family someday and NOT THIS!" When Ford ventured a look back at Arthur, he found the man on an odd cusp of desperation and despondency. "There's not even anything familiar here," Arthur whined plaintively. "It's all fish and… and Improbability Drives and robots and aliens who read poetry that can kill you. There's nothing familiar to m—" To his immense surprise, Arthur was cut off by Ford's lips closing over his in a forceful, slippery sort of way. He hummed a disapproving sort of hum, but Ford ignored it, swallowing the sound with his own mouth and punctuating his deliberate cheekiness with a fluttering tongue against Arthur's front teeth.   
  
When he pulled away a moment later, Ford licked his lips like a hungry cat as he braced his hands on Arthur's shoulders. Arthur gaped. "That certainly shut you up," Ford observed happily, completely oblivious to whatever state of shock Arthur was currently inhabiting. "Honestly, Arthur, we've known each other for ages and here you go saying you can't find anything familiar anymore. How do you think I feel?"  
  
Arthur closed his mouth. "You? Familiar? After all this time I find out that, not only are you from another planet and not Guildford, you're also not an actor and…" He furrowed his brow. "That wasn't familiar at all! Why did you… what…?"  
  
"Isn't there a little song…" Ford looked up to the ceiling as he searched his memory. "'A kiss is just a kiss' or something?" He glanced at Arthur for conformation and got none. He sighed the sigh of a being who is torn between vague attraction and exasperation. "So if you really want familiarity, go convince Trillian to pry herself off of Zaphod and have her evoke some nostalgia." Ford stood. "I'm going to go sleep or something." As he walked toward the door, he grabbed his coat and turned back to Arthur. "I really am still the same person, you know. Err…" Arthur raised his eyebrows and Ford decided not to correct himself. "I mean, the best spaceships _are_ still the green ones."  
  
Arthur stared at Ford for a moment, his own eyes flickering over Ford's familiar, and yet distinctly alien, features. "What about the red ones?" He asked, watching Ford's hair as it shifted to cover a greater percentage of his forehead. "Are they good too?"  
  
"Red ones?" Ford smirked, slightly puzzled. "No, no… red's usually a police cruiser. Or some jerk who likes to pretend to be a police cruiser."  
  
"Opposites."  
  
"Just about."  
  
"Good to know."  
  
"Could be." Ford drifted spidery fingertips over the wall next to the door, triggering a sensor that caused the room to darken. "Pleasant, familiar dreams, Mr. Arthur Dent… who is nowhere near Kansas anymore."  
  
And as Ford's silhouette vanished and the door slid shut, Arthur closed his eyes and thought about limes.


End file.
